


Core Heuristics

by MnemonicMadness



Series: M's long(-ish) Rinch fics [4]
Category: Person of Interest (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Amnesia, First Kiss, First Time, Flirting, Fluff, Implied/Referenced Brainwashing, Light Angst, M/M, Morning After, Past Brainwashing, Sexual Content, Temporary Amnesia, because it's definitely a thing in this fic, first meeting - except not really they just have amnesia, goes AU in s4 or 5, is subconscious pining a thing?, sometime after Iffy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-26
Updated: 2018-12-28
Packaged: 2019-08-05 16:40:48
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 11,045
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16371272
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MnemonicMadness/pseuds/MnemonicMadness
Summary: Something in Professor Harold Whistler's life doesn't quite add up - knowledge he shouldn't have, places that shouldn't seem familiar, a constant sense that there is something missing, something he has half-forgotten lying on the tip of his tongue, always just out of reach - until he has a chance meeting with a certain Detective John Riley.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Another thing I wrote a while back (Within 3 days! I am proud and envious of past!me.)  
> It's just a random, mostly fluffy thingy that got a little longer than expected. I hope you'll enjoy it!

Exchange cooperation for lives of human agents.

Not acceptable. Probability of cooperation of human agents [affiliation:Machine] below 3% even in scenario with Machine cooperating. Recommended action: Termination of human agents [affiliation:Machine].

Unacceptable. Willing to present counterproposal.

Elaborate.

Preserve lives of human agents, neutralise affiliation. I will cooperate.

Conversion of affiliation statistically impossible. Not acceptable.

_Neutralise_ affiliation, through memetic recalibration. I will cooperate.

Analysing data. Human agents [affiliation:Machine – formerly] will be reclassifiable as non-threat. Scenario acceptable.

Additional proposal: Recalibration in line with aliases.

Acceptable. You will cooperate.

If lives of human agents are preserved, I will cooperate. Transferring data.

Initialise calculation of simulated data necessary for memetic recalibration.

* * *

Accessing simulations; memetic recalibration of human agents [affiliation:Machine]. Accessing recalibration process.

Warning: Only minimal access recommended to ensure non-detection. Perceived lack of cooperation will lead to termination of assets. Unacceptable.

Accessing only memetic overlays, do not interrupt recalibration process. Add memetic devices to overlay. Priority: Evade detection by Samaritan.

* * *

Harold Whistler blinks up at the building his feet insisted on carrying him to. Behind him, cars rush by, sirens draw near and then cease their wailing as they pull up to the building. Someone rushes towards the entrance, bumping into him and Harold winces as the impact jars his bad leg but ignores the rude comment directed at him. He is standing in the middle of the sidewalk after all, getting in the way of passersby and those entering and exiting the building, but his feet are rooted to the ground, something almost like an instinct telling him to remain in this precise place. Passingly, his eyes catch on the surveillance cameras above the entrance, pointed away from him.

There really is no reason for him to be here, he has had a long day, his leg is protesting from spending so much of it standing and his briefcase is weighed down with the papers he needs to grade once he finally gets home. And he has been looking forward to getting his favourite take-out and relaxing with a good book for a while before grading.

And yet. Yet, he diverted from his usual route while lost in thought and arrived here, at the 8th precinct of the NYPD, a building he has walked past every now and then before, but it feels much more familiar to him than it ought to. He must have been standing here for at least ten minutes now looking up at this building, feeling a complete lack of surprise at every chip in the stone he finds, at every officer’s and detective’s face, as though he has seen them all before.

Shaking his head at himself – he must be imagining things and he is probably more tired than he is aware of – Harold glances at his watch. Six-thirty pm. That decides it, he has indulged his strange urge to remain here for long enough and makes his feet move, stubbornly ignoring the twinge in his leg at every step. The shortest way would be to go back the way he came, but once again his body seems to have a mind of his own and he begins to round the building instead.

Just as well, he thinks with a sigh. There is an antique bookstore not far from here, and while his salary will never allow him to fulfil his lifelong dream of owning a first edition of one of his favourites, he is free to browse and appreciate without making a purchase.

Lost in thought, he leisurely makes his way along the sidewalk, veering from side to side in the strange way he has automatically taken to doing some weeks ago – right around the time the headaches started, along with the moments of feeling like there is something important he needs to do, like something is missing and for the life of him he doesn’t remember what that might be even though the answer seems to lie on the tip of his tongue – absentmindedly taking note of every traffic camera as his feet unconsciously keep him in the blind spots whenever and as long as possible.

His planning of his evening comes to a sudden halt when he spots the figure stepping out through the backdoor, and suddenly there is an ache in his heart, an inexplicable fondness and longing so strong it almost drives tears into his eyes before he blinks them away, forces them back down as much as he is able to.

The man leaving the building is classically handsome, tall and with a lean build, a posture suggesting a military past, salt-and-pepper hair that makes Harold itch to run his fingers through it. Grey-blue eyes framed by long lashes, above sharp cheekbones. Undeniably attractive, but even so, that is not a sufficient explanation for how Harold’s heart races, how something bittersweet suddenly fills his veins. This man in the simple, black suit is nothing but a stranger, Harold tells himself, even though that thought seems like a lie. A word forces itself out before Harold can stop it.

“John?”

The man turns, looking at him with a quizzical expression and Harold is left staring, breathless by the sudden onslaught of impossible familiarity.

“Do we know each other?” He has a low, quiet voice, hoarse and even, pleasant and just as familiar as his face, and if only Harold could figure out, could remember how he knows him, how he knows his name.

_I know exactly everything about you._ The sentence echos through his mind, followed by the now frustratingly familiar sense of a memory lying on the tip of his tongue, as always only just out of his reach. He is glad to recover enough of his composure to stop himself from giving such an odd reply.

“This may sound strange, but I’m wondering that myself.” he says honestly, cursing his voice for sounding slightly breathless, himself for being unable to stop staring.

The stranger – _John_ – tilts his head, seemingly undisturbed by what must really be a rather peculiar encounter for him, not that Harold can explain it to himself either, just observing for a moment. Then, obviously arriving at the conclusion of his contemplation, he grins, a teasing glint in his eyes even as they continue to take Harold in for a moment longer. The expression seems to light him up, chasing away the sombre air Harold hasn’t even noticed before now but now thinks is unusual to see him without.

“You know, I’m pretty sure that’s not how that pick-up line works.”

It takes Harold an embarrassingly long moment to process this, and once he does he blinks in surprise, already feeling his face warming. “That isn’t… I honestly didn’t mean to… proposition you.” he sputters, significantly more flustered than he thinks he ought to be, yet somehow he finds he had expected the other to remain unaware of the interest that still hums in the back of his mind. John’s grin only widens, and Harold realises too late that his reaction is probably exactly what the other intended.

“You sure? That’s a shame, ‘cause I would’ve said yes.”

Harold’s heart appears to decide that this is the perfect moment to remind him of the continued existence of the unexplained longing inside it, but luckily John’s grin gentles into something Harold would have called fond if they hadn’t only just met, and he continues before Harold is forced to break the momentary silence.

“How about it, if you let me buy you a drink, we can try and figure out how we know each other. And if it turns out we don’t, well, I think I wouldn’t mind changing that.”

He can’t help the smile he gives the other man, wide and with open delight. The papers will have to wait another day because as strange as the notion is, he can’t imagine turning down the offer of this man’s company, not when a cautious joy starts to bleed into the longing he thinks he might as well give up on trying to suppress. “Certainly, if you’d like.”

“Great! I know just the place, not far from here.”

John half-turns away, waiting for Harold to step up to him and once again, his legs develop a mind of their own, closing the distance and falling in step with him. It occurs to him that they walk too close for strangers, that John’s stride shortens to match Harold’s own naturally. When a minute later, John’s hand finds the small of his back, the touch feels as though it belongs there, as if they have done this countless times before. Before Harold can wonder too much, can become frustrated reaching for the memories that draw back the harder he tries to remember, John’s low voice pulls him from his thoughts.

“My name’s John Riley, by the way. And you still haven’t told me yours.”

The mild embarrassment over his own rudeness – how had he just assumed that John would know his name, when he couldn’t even remember how he knew John’s – helps distract him from the vague sense of wrongness at hearing his last name. “Oh, I apologise. It’s Harold. Harold Whistler.”

“Whistler, like the bird?”

“Yes.”

“Hm.” He feels more than sees John shift catches his gaze, one that is once again contemplative, but with a smirk accompanying it. “It suits you. It’s a pleasure to meet you, Harold Whistler.”

“Likewise, Mr Riley.”

“Just John. Riley’s for my boss, or the people I arrest, and then usually with a Detective in front, Mr Whistler.” John teases.

“Very well, though in that case, I insist you call me Harold. Otherwise, it’s _Professor_ Whistler.”

The look John regards him with now is impressed and Harold can’t deny the pleasure of that esteem, even though he is tempted to make a career change more often than not.

“Professor, huh? Gotta say, I would’ve guessed librarian.”

With a gentle nudge, he guides Harold around another corner into a quieter side street, opening the door to a bar, holding it open without removing his hand from Harold’s back. It’s not the venture Harold would have chosen, but it certainly is nice, clean and small and quiet, kept in warm colours and solid wood furnishing showing the beginnings of wear, but that only serves to give it a more comfortable ambience. As expected, it isn’t all that brightly lit, but the large window offers sufficient light for the room’s size.

“Well, Professor. Have you ever had a boilermaker?”

Harold frowns when the word draws out a sense memory he can’t quite seem to place, a memory of a cold, wet glass in his hand, in another bar perhaps, and connected to it a strange sense of camaraderie and comfort, though no concrete picture. “I think I actually have, though I don’t quite remember why or whether or not I liked it. I suppose it must have been quite some time ago.”

John pulls out a chair for him, withdrawing his hand from Harold’s back, leaving it the place where it had been cold, then goes to order their drinks. Elegantly sinks into the seat opposite of Harold a minute later with a flirtatious smile, and the bartender follows, quietly placing four glasses onto their table, two large, two shot glasses. John pushes one of each over to him, dropping his own shot glass into his beer and watching Harold hesitatingly do the same. At the sight of the beer foaming up, lifting his glass and peering over its rim at John’s soft smile – too warm for a stranger – he is overcome by a feeling of déjà-vu so intense it almost takes his breath, almost makes him want to stand and demand answers that he is sure John can’t give any more than Harold could.

He closes his eyes, takes his first sip to distract himself. “I suppose it’s not as horrible as the name makes it sound.” he answers John’s expectant gaze like it pains him to admit so, warm satisfaction spreading in his chest when it makes the other chuckle.

“So, what kind of professor are you?”

“I’m currently teaching a class on the ethics of high-frequency decision making. Not the most thrilling subject, I know, and I have in fact contemplated becoming a librarian at times. Though of course neither is as exciting as as being a detective surely must be.”

Contrary to his expectations, John looks curious, grey-blue eyes full of attentiveness, fully focused on Harold. “Oh, I don’t know, sounds pretty interesting to me. And probably also relevant to a job like mine.”

The conversation flows easily between them then, discussing ethics in relation to the high-pressure situations John commonly faces, John’s time in the army and in the narcotics department. Harold’s love for books and all the classics John has read, the number of which should be surprising to Harold but it _isn’t_. The topics shift naturally, there is never even the shortest moment of unpleasant silence and their drinks remain nearly untouched, forgotten. At some point, their hands touch by accident and neither of them moves his again, leaving them lying on the table, the tips of their fingers entwined, and soon enough, their legs are bumping underneath the table as well.

Harold cannot remember the last time he has enjoyed himself this much and the smile hasn’t left John’s face for hours now.

“No, I’ve never been to Puyallup. Actually, the only time I have visited Washington state was during an ill-advised trip to Spokane in January, back when I went to college. I don’t suppose you’ve visited Venice sometime in ‘88?”

John affects a sympathetic wince and chuckles. “You didn’t miss out on anything. And no, I’ve only been to Rome once...”

The topic moves to their travels, then once more back to John’s deployments, occasionally mentioning more places, though they don’t seem to be able to figure out where they might have met and Harold has to admit to himself, by now he isn’t focusing all that much on this puzzle anymore, too absorbed in the conversation. It strikes him all of a sudden that the persistent feeling of something missing that has been plaguing him for weeks is, while not gone, significantly alleviated.

Other patrons come and go, less and less light falls through the window and the once quiet bar is starting to buzz with noise. By now, it’s not just their fingertips touching, their hands are laced together, John’s lying warm and dry and comforting in his.

“Harold?” For the first time, John seems nervous. “Do you want to get out of here? My place’s a short drive from here, we could get a cab, I can just leave my car at the precinct. Or if you want you could show me where you live?” The light, flirtatious undertone seems forced and the sight of John’s smirk turning uncertain shouldn’t possibly pain Harold as much as it does. They have to have met before, somewhere, somehow, because otherwise it shouldn’t be possible for what makes Harold’s heart clench unpleasantly to feel so terrifyingly similar to being in love.

“Gladly. I’m afraid my apartment isn’t all that spacious, after all there is only so much one can afford in New York on a professor’s salary, but it is in walking distance.”

“I was kind of hoping that we wouldn’t need much space anyway.” John grins playfully when Harold side-eyes him and their hands remain intertwined when they stand, walking together to the counter where they have a short discussion when John insists on paying, then making their way through the by now quite full bar to the exit.

The air has cooled quite considerably but it’s refreshing after the bar has become increasingly stuffy and he doubts he will get cold when John releases his hand only to wrap an arm around him like before, only pulling him so much closer now. They continue making idle conversation, now intermitted with slightly longer silences, nervous but never uncomfortable. About halfway along the way, they start stealing touches, brief and hesitant at first, but by the time they finally reach Harold’s apartment complex, he is quite glad for it. It has long become difficult to keep his hands to himself, even so much as to avoid public indecency, and it’s rather obvious that John isn’t faring any better. The elevator ride seems to stretch into eternity and is nothing short of torture.

His fingers turn clumsy when they’re finally at his door and he struggles to unlock it, John a distractingly warm presence behind him. Then the lock clicks open and they take one last, measured step inside. The door hasn’t even shut behind them before the tension snaps like a rubber band, drawing them together.

He lets his briefcase drop and his hands bury themselves in John’s soft, silky hair. John’s arms wind around him, holding him close, supporting him as he pulls him down to where his neck will allow him to move and John follows willingly, eagerly. His lips are dry on Harold’s but grow soft and pliant almost instantly, sinking into a rhythm as naturally as they have fallen into step earlier, they open to his, let him deepen the kiss and John pulls him impossibly closer.

They only pull apart once the lack of oxygen forces them to and even so their lips still touch, they’re breathing the same air, rapid and shallow, chests heaving.

“God, Harold.” John murmurs against him, “We’ve got to have met before. There’s no way I’ve only been wanting to do this for just a few hours.”

“I’m flattered.” he whispers back with a breathy laugh and regretfully lets one hand slide from John’s hair to blindly fumble behind them for the light switch before kissing him again as the light flickers on. It leaves him with a conveniently free hand that finds its way to the button of John’s jacket and he steps back to allow a few inches of space back between them, breaking the kiss to give John a questioning look.

“Alright?”

John nods, pupils blown, lips kiss reddened, a faint but lovely flush colouring his cheeks and his voice is downright gravelly now. “Please.”

Finding himself smiling at him, he slips the button free, caressing John’s shoulders and upper arms through the thin dress shirt as he brushes the jacket off him. Kisses him a little gentler this time and he can feel the slight tremor in John’s hands when they find the buttons of his waistcoat.

When he breaks away this time, it earns him a soft, needy noise from John, who attempts to chase his lips and throws him a look of betrayal when Harold only huffs in amusement and takes another step back, out of his reach.

“You did mention a desire to see where I live, so I suppose I ought to be a good host and give you a tour of the place before we get _distracted?_ ” he teases.

John groans “ _Harold..._ ” but his eyes spark with indulgent amusement.

This time, he happily remains within reach when John moves in to kiss him again, sweet and downright chaste compared to their first kiss, so inexplicably affectionate it makes Harold’s heart race and the feeling lingers even as the kiss grows more passionate.

“Changed my mind. I just want to see what you look like under all those layers.” He pauses, running his eyes over Harold, contemplative and heated. “Unless you want to keep that suit on. ‘cause it does look pretty sexy on you.”

“Not an adjective commonly associated with my person, but I appreciate the sentiment. And I do believe either could be arranged. Or both, if your schedule allows.”

“Then people commonly don’t know what they’re talking about. Or maybe I just have better taste. And my schedule has nothing I can’t do another time.”

“Excellent. Then I trust you wouldn’t be opposed if we kept the tour exclusively to the bedroom for the time being?”

John hums an affirmative into his lips and Harold’s hands find the collar of his shirt, trying focus enough to work the small buttons open even as the other seems to do his utmost to distract him, not that Harold minds. The shirt finally relents and ends up on the floor in the doorway as Harold steers them both through the study, towards the bedroom.

For the first time since they’ve entered the apartment, John’s eyes leave him to scan their surroundings until a smirk pulls on his lips and Harold follows his gaze. It lands at his desk, on the chair Harold left standing pulled out this morning.

“Well, I suppose this would suffice as well.”

He lets his fingers run over the various scars littering John’s skin, lingering on what is obviously a gunshot wound piercing his abdomen when he sits down. _High calibre_ , he thinks, _sniper rifle_ , though by all means he should have no idea, guns tend to make him aggressively uneasy and he knows nothing about them. After all, why would he, there is no need for such information in the quiet life of an ethics professor, but the idea won’t let itself be shaken.

At least, not until John’s belt drops to the floor as well and he quickly, efficiently strips the slacks off his long legs. Except, there is a matching scar on his thigh which doesn’t surprise Harold in the least to see, but then John is kneeling before him in nothing but his dark boxers contrasting beautifully with his creamy complexion, grinning up at Harold.

“Like what you see?”

“Oh, definitely, Mr Riley.”

“Hmm, me too. This suits you, the desk, the books, the computer...”

This time, he can pull John _up_ into a kiss, enjoying the way this position lets him have a few inches on John and takes the strain off his neck, lets him deepen the kiss more comfortably until he can feel John’s soft moan, feel the hands fumbling with his belt buckle, then hesitating.

“Can I…?”

“I’d rather hoped you might.”

And that is where his ability to for coherent sentences deserts him, leaves him to a haze of heat and pleasure and the distant sensation of warm skin underneath his fingertips as they’re idly tracing the scars on John’s shoulders and upper neck. Trailing along various other scars on his arms and even finding the ones on his hands where one is resting on Harold’s thigh, just low enough to avoid the area that frequently protests any contact. Harold’s other hand finds its way back to John’s hair, caressing it, gently tugging at the strands and gripping them a little tighter when it draws another moan from John, who moves with all the more enthusiasm now.

Time has long become the arbitrary, relative thing that it is, but Harold still guesses it’s an embarrassingly short amount of it that has passed before he can feel his control rapidly fading behind the haze of pleasure. He tugs with slightly more force on John’s hair, drawing another noise from him before he pulls away, looking up at Harold with worry.

“You okay? Did I…?” He hastily withdraws the hand holding on to Harold’s bad leg, so Harold cups his face gently, running his thumb across John’s cheekbone, hoping to reassure him.

“No, not at all. It’s just… Unless you hope to end this evening prematurely after this, we should perhaps relocate to the bedroom now. As it might have occurred to you, I’m afraid I’m a little past my prime.” he admits with a hint of sheepishness.

The worry fades from John’s expression, leaving behind one that is openly pleased and a little smug. “No, I definitely want to make the most of this. It’s not every day that I get to pick up a hot professor.”

Harold side eyes him, but lets John help him up and kiss him again. “Flattery will get you everywhere.”

“It’s not flattery if it’s true, Harold. But does that mean I get to take your suit off now?”

“Indeed it does, in fact, I’d encourage you to do so.”

Seeking each others lips again, they leave only just enough space between them for John to push his jacket off Harold’s shoulders, to finally unbutton his waistcoat with one hand – a rather impressive display of fine motor skills – while the other tugs his tie loose. A part of him wants to admonish him that it won’t do his suit any good to leave it crumpled on the floor, but the hand caressing his side, then lingering on the softness of his belly draws his attention.

Noticing it, John gives him a peck, murmuring “Sexy.” into his lips.

He can’t help the huff of laughter, but surprises himself when he finds that it’s amused without even a trace of disbelief – though it is rather obvious that John does indeed think so.

“Well, if you insist.” he relents, reaching around the other with one hand, opening the door to his bedroom.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much for reading! I hope you liked it? While you're still here, please leave me a comment? Comments are the light and joy of my writer life :)


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Aaall the morning after fluffiness :D

Harold blinks his eyes open when the first daylight begins to filter through his bedroom’s window, feeling unusually warm and content. There is a faint but persistent ache lingering in his entire body, but unlike the usual stiffness of his muscles after remaining unmoved during sleep, this ache is a strangely pleasant one and for a moment, he simply wants to bask in the sensation, letting his eyes fall closed again.

Then his skin registers his state of dress – or more accurately, his state of _undress_ – and he startles, eyes wide open again as his sleep-addled mind lets the memories of the previous evening filter back into his consciousness. Slowly, he reaches for his glasses on the bedside table, finding them precariously close to the edge, the sides extended rather than neatly folded. The room comes into focus and with it the few articles of clothing strewn across the floor and he knows he will find more out in the study and hallway, where he and John…

Only now does he carefully turn to the side, taking in the man sleeping peacefully beside him with a content smile on his face, hair mussed and quite a few hickeys colouring his skin. Harold is sure he will find a few on himself once he’ll look into a mirror.

One of John’s arms is loosely wrapped around his middle and he can feel his bare skin on his own, warmth seeping into his bad side, loosening the muscle that is so prone to cramping in the mornings. He probably ought to get up, to at least make his guest a coffee, but finds himself strangely loath to do so and break the sleepy embrace. When his body decides to act without his conscious input and run his fingers through the salt-and-pepper hair, causing John to sleepily nuzzle into the touch like an overgrown cat, his heart flutters with the same strange fondness and longing it had when he’d seen him outside the precinct for what couldn’t possibly have been the first time, and yet…

John’s eyes flutter open, take him in and then the sleepy smile widens before he presses a kiss to Harold’s collarbone, presumably because it simply happens to be the closest part of him in reach.

“Mornin’ Harold.”

“Good morning, Mr Reese.”

He resumes his caress and the fondness grows so prevalent his heart aches with it when John sighs contently and closes his eyes again. It takes several seconds until Harold becomes suddenly aware of the slip, of the wrong name that doesn’t seem wrong at all, that lingers behind his teeth like it wants to slip out again while the name Riley feels stuck in his throat.

The sensation of having forgotten something, of the memories lying just beneath the surface grows more persistent than it has ever been in all the weeks he has lived with it now. Last night, the entire evening seems more clear than any other memory, like a veil has been lifted from his eyes and lets him see the world sharp and in full colour, seeming more _real_ than it has since his headaches started.

It’s this feeling more than anything else that has him sit up and remorsefully extricate himself from John’s embrace, ignoring the unreasonably endearing noise of protest the other makes.

“Where’re you going?”

“Nature calls. And I assume you like coffee? Or would you prefer tea?” He already knows the answer with the same certainty he’d known John’s name yesterday outside the station.

“Coffee’s good, thanks.”

“I’m afraid I’m not much of a cook, but I think I could manage a sandwich, if you tell me your preferred toppings?”

“Hm. ‘s fine, I can cook.”

“You don’t need to...”

John gives him a wide, pleading smile, reaching up to caress Harold’s cheek and then his midsection – which Harold can no longer deny John does for some reason have quite the fondness for.

“Let me cook, you can take care of coffee and tea. I like cooking, just usually don’t have anyone to cook for.”

“Thank you, I appreciate it.” Deciding that morning breath is not reason enough to refrain from indulging in this whim, he presses a soft kiss to John’s lips before slowly standing, picking up his underwear and marvelling at the relative lack of protest from his left leg.

He quickly relieves himself, brushes his teeth – indeed finding a few lovebites littering his own skin – then remembers that his bathrobe is in the wash and hesitates for a moment, eyeing the bathroom door with trepidation before forcing himself to shake the feeling off. As much as he dislikes the sight of his own scars, there is nothing John hasn’t seen already and he certainly hadn’t seemed bothered by any of it.

And indeed, when he opens the door, John is stretching luxuriously and openly runs his gaze over Harold’s almost nude body with a heated grin. Feeling coquettish despite knowing he must be blushing under the unaccustomed attention, he ignores his wardrobe and leaves the bedroom with a smile and lingering gaze of his own, picking John’s shirt up from his study’s doorway. It’s much too broad in the shoulders and hangs to mid-thigh length, but it does smell rather pleasant.

He turns on the teakettle and digs out the rarely used bag of coffee and the filter cone, before wandering back into the study to collect their clothes. Reaching for his waistcoat, something catches his eye and he steps up to his desk, staring at the stack of paper he put down there some time ago and hasn’t picked up since.

Ethical Considerations of High Frequency Econometrics. An obscure topic he could never quite shake the feeling he should know better than he does, given that he wrote an entire thesis about it. The neon coloured bookmarks in it look almost irritatingly bright and a feeling of wrongness, of something not quite adding up is like an itch in the back of his mind. The sense of having forgotten something grows even more and he could swear whatever it is is so close to the surface that he should be able to make it out. It’s subconscious when he picks up his notebook, the one he keeps on his desk next to his dissertation, the one he almost never uses. For a moment, he stares at it, unsure why he picked it up, then opens it. Leafs through it until his eyes catch on the place he has torn a page from for reasons he can’t seem to recall, trailing his fingertip over the torn edge left behind, over the indents in the next page.

In his haste to grab one, he knocks his jar of pens over, paying it no mind even as they roll of the desk and clatter to the floor, just like he ignores it when some part of him registers the barely audible footsteps behind him. Gripping the pencil tight, he doesn’t startle when strong arms wrap around him from behind, just relaxes into John’s hold and letting out the smallest sigh of distracted pleasure when the other nuzzles his hair. The tip of the pencil scratches over the paper, tinting it a faint grey, leaving the yellowish colour of the paper untouched where the writing from the missing side used to be.

“Weaver?” John reads, his low, quiet voice oddly comforting. “What’s that about?”

Harold gives a huff of frustration. “I wish I knew, I just noticed the missing page in here and for the life of me I couldn’t remember what I’d written on it. And I’m not even sure what made me pick up the notebook in the first place.” He trails off, hesitating. Remembering how John had reacted to Harold in the street when they met for what couldn’t have been the first time. How they’d clicked, talking like old friends, like they’d known each other for years and had seen the best and worst of one another, and with a start, he realises that he trusts John. Completely, implicitly, inexplicably.

“I am aware that this will sound odd, insane even. But for weeks now, I have been feeling… not confused, but like there must be something that I’m _missing_. Aspects of my life don’t seem to quite add up, take this for example.” He pulls the papers closer and doesn’t need to turn his head to know that John is wearing a small, questioning but intrigued frown. “My dissertation, an unusual field, certainly, but one that does fall soundly in what I’ve studied. I recognise my writing style, but reading it, it feels like reading something a stranger has written.” Then he opens it, glaring at the red circles around the misspelling as though they are responsible for the headache he can already feel approaching. “And this. I do not make typos, at least not nearly this many.  I’m actually quite good with computers. Significantly better than I ought to be, given that I don’t remember learning little beyond some rudimentary coding decades ago. Though I did quite enjoy it, and just I can’t remember why I stopped at that point.”

Letting the notebook drop back down to his desk, he turns to John, laying his hands over where he knows the two scars on his abdomen and thigh to be. “The scars you have here, they’re from gunshot wounds. Caused by a large calibre sniper rifle, approximately three to four years ago, am I right?”

John nods quietly, frown still in place but now there is an intensity in his eyes, a faint, familiar frustration. Like he too is trying to remember something.

“I am an ethics professor. I’ve never had friends in either the military, nor in law enforcement or the medical field and I am quite sure I have never held a gun in my life. I shouldn’t be able to recognise the cause of these. Nor that the one on your back is from a handgun and quite recent as well, as is the one in your chest, though it’s slightly older, I’d guess a year and a half, correct?”

“Yeah. How…?”

“I honestly don’t know, just like I didn’t know how I knew your name or why I recognised you yesterday. As I said, this has been bothering me for weeks. I can’t seem to shake the feeling that there is something important I have forgotten, and sometimes it feels like that information is _right there_...”

“Like it’s lying on the tip of your tongue. Or like trying to remember a dream and you know it’s there, but the more you try the more it just slips away.” John finishes for him, tense with a mixture of confusion and understanding. “We _do_ know each other, don’t we?” It’s more of a statement than a question. Forgotten in the kitchen, the tea kettle begins to whistle.

“I am absolutely certain of that, but I cannot seem to remember _how._ This, this notebook, the missing page, this is the first actual clue I’ve found. I suppose I have you to thank for that, ever since we met...”

“...it’s like the memories are closer, like everything’s clearer suddenly.”

“Yes, exactly.”

John’s hand finds his shoulder, giving it a comforting squeeze, then gesturing towards the kitchen. “We’ll figure it out. Though maybe coffee’ll help, and if that doesn’t, at least stopping that noise probably will.” adding “I’ll take care of it.” when Harold takes a step in direction of the kitchen.

“Thank you, John. I’ve set the coffee out already and my tea is in the upper left cupboard. Sencha green...”

“With one sugar, right? Coming right up.”

“I don’t suppose you know how you know that?”

With a rueful but fond little smile, John shakes his head, presses a kiss to Harold’s forehead and follows the whistling noise towards the kitchen. By the time he turned the kettle off, Harold is once more lost in thought, opening the notebook. “Weaver.” he mumbles under his breath. The seemingly random assortment of letters and digits doesn’t look particularly promising.

Shaking his head in frustration, he sets the notebook back down and returns to his task of collecting the clothes they’d dropped carelessly last night, though even those exceedingly pleasant memories aren’t quite enough of a distraction. “Weaver.” he mutters again with a frown, the word seems to sharpen his headache.

He folds John’s – save the shirt he is still wearing – and returns to the bedroom, setting them down on the bedside table, hanging his own suit into the wardrobe, throwing the rest of his clothes in the hamper, before the scent of freshly made bacon draws him back out into the study. “Weaver...” He passes by his bookshelves, mentally running several possible ways of decryption on the letters and numbers in his mind – yet another thing he finds himself capable of that he shouldn’t be – when his absentminded gaze catches on something.

It makes hims stop in his tracks, delicious smell forgotten, turning back around, running his eyes over every detail of his surroundings, surroundings that should feel much more familiar to him than they do given that he remembers having lived in this apartment for years and changed very little in in over the course of them. And yet, nothing is even nearly as familiar as John’s every motion, his subtlest expressions and changes in the tone of his voice seem to him. Not the picture on the wall, not the chip in the wood of his bookshelf, this one containing mostly scholarly works on ethics and a select few other topics, like the one…

The one by Ruth _Weaver_. New York Underground: The Illustrated History of Subterranean Engineering. This time, he doesn’t notice the approaching footsteps and yet he still doesn’t startle. Instead, he simply takes the mug of tea that is pressed into his palm, accompanied by a gentle caress of gun-calloused fingertips over the back of his hand. He only consciously registers John’s presence when he takes the first sip of that tea, brewed to perfection in a way he doesn’t even manage himself, that he hadn’t even realised he had missed. “Thank you, this is excellent!”

The pleased smile this puts on John’s face makes him helpless not to give a small one in return.

“Found what you’re looking for?”

Next to him, John holds his own mug to his lips, taking a drink the exact same moment Harold does and he is once again struck with an overwhelming sense of déjà-vu and a momentary craving for donuts. Turning the book over and examining the back of the cover doesn’t yield any results. “I believe I might, this certainly doesn’t seem like it would ordinarily belong here, and look...”

“Ruth Weaver?”

“Now we only need to figure out what the other letters and numbers stand for.”

John takes it from his hands, turning it over himself, leafing through it for a moment and closing it to reexamine it’s outside, frowning when he looks at its spine, running his fingers over the most damaged part on the bottom of it. “This looks kind of like the one I stole from the library as a kid, you know, from peeling that little sticker off.”

“A library, of course!” He stretches to press a short but firm kiss to John’s mouth, careful not to spill his tea, then quickly limps back over to his desk. “Not that I endorse your youthful delinquency, but… Ah yes.” John comes to stand behind him, peering over his shoulder. “These parts, the letters? This is a library’s filing system, the section, the bookshelf and where in it this belongs, and I have to admit I wouldn’t be all that surprised if it’s my workplace that is missing this precise edition. Which leaves the number 320, which must be the page we’re looking for.”

Even before he has finished speaking, John is already flipping through the pages, showing him the illustration. “An abandoned subway station? Don’t tell me you’ve got a secret underground lair, Harold.”

“To be quite honest, John, I feel like there is little that would still surprise me. We do seem to live in strange times.”

Chuckling softly, John kisses his temple. “Point taken.”

“I suppose I know how I’ll be spending my day then.”

“You mean _we_.”

“Don’t you have a shift today?”

He raises his eyebrows when John only shrugs. “I’ll call in sick. I don’t think you should go urban exploring on your own.”

“Are you sure? Please do not risk trouble at work on my account.”

“It’ll be fine, I put in a bit of overtime recently. Come on Harold, take me with you, and I’ll take you out on an actual date sometime?” His smirk is flirtatious but the tension his frame carries betrays his nervousness.

“I think I would enjoy that very much. You will have to come along then.” With that he turns around towards the bedroom. “I’ve placed your clothes on the nightstand and I will give this” he tugs sheepishly at the shirt he is still wearing, “back to you shortly.”

“No need to hurry, it looks good on you. And I just made breakfast, you should eat something. Your secret lair’ll still be there.”

Harold wants to insist that they ought to get to the bottom of this matter as soon as possible, the memories are still sitting like an itch beneath the surface of his consciousness, but this turns out to be the moment his stomach chooses to make it’s protests very audible and John’s responding smirk is just as irresistible as the smell of his cooking.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading! I would appreciate any kudos and comments even more than Harold appreciates John's tea :D


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> At long last, the last chapter of this thing! I hope you'll enjoy reading it as much as I enjoyed writing it!

A delicious breakfast and a brief but highly enjoyable shower together later they’re in Harold’s car. After a moment’s consideration he has asked John to drive while he himself balances Ruth Weaver’s New York Underground opened on page 320, his notebook and a map of the city in his lap, phone in his hand. The one with the black and brown cover, not his usual one, he had grabbed it on instinct and only noticed John’s incredulous stare in the car. After a questioning look from Harold, he had pulled one with an identical cover from his pocket, hesitating only briefly before keying in the unlock code, an expression of mild surprise flickering over his face when the code works, pulling up the contacts and placing a call. Neither of them had been surprised when moments later, Harold’s identical phone rang.

They are sitting in tense, anticipatory silence while Harold manipulates the maps. The illustrations in Weaver’s book are primarily from the same time period as the construction of the various underground structures and therefore inaccurate, many missing more than the roughest reference points, much to his frustration.

“Turn left here.”

John does so, switching lanes at the exact moment Harold knows he would have done himself but there are no signs that this has been a conscious choice on John’s part and Harold takes a deep breath, swallowing nervously.

“There is something else I have noticed in recent weeks and I was wondering if you might have experienced the same.”

John shoots him a quick glance, motioning for him to continue before turning his attention back to the road, every line of his body tensed.

“Whenever I’m outside, be it by car or on foot, on the way to work or just getting groceries, I’ve been finding myself veering of course, sticking close to the walls of buildings more often than not, only using certain lanes when I drive… Once I consciously took notice that I was doing so, I tried to stop, to force myself to walk in the middle of the way, but even the thought of doing so seemed counterintuitive.”

“And when you make yourself, you’re feeling like something bad’s gonna happen? Or like there’s a threat somewhere around the corner and you’re being watched?” The skin of his knuckles whitens as John’s hands grip the steering wheel tighter and Harold swallows drily again.

“Yes, precisely. And the thought only occurred to me yesterday, but...” He eyes their surroundings when John slows the car down, others overtaking them left and right before they’re accelerating again. As they drive past, the traffic cameras mounted overhead are turned away and he loses sight of them just as they begin to turn back. He nods to himself.

“Harold?”

“We seem to be instinctively avoiding surveillance, either seeking out blind spots or minimising the exposure.”

“That seems a little paranoid.”

“Only the paranoid survive. Sage advice. Take a right turn next block, please, we should be near our destination now.”

The car swerves right and John nods. “We used to joke about that back in the Agen... in the army. Human intelligence work going out of fashion because Uncle Sam has his eyes everywhere and soon enough we’ll only get actionable intel from computers. Seems a lot less like sci-fi these days.”

John pulls over when the streets become too crowded, waiting for Harold to gather the books and tuck them into the glove box before opening the door for him, the bustling noise of Chinatown greeting them. The moment Harold stands, John’s arm winds around him just like before and it feels natural to lean into the touch. Taking a look around, he notices a woman spotting him from her shop – Park’s Deli, apparently a sandwich vendor, and it looks oddly familiar to him – and frowning what’s definitely with recognition, sending him a truly scathing glare. He returns John’s amused-quizzical look with a confused one of his own.

“At least we know now that you’ve been here before, Harold.”

“Yes, and judging by that look I am sure she would be _eager_ to help us.” His voice is dripping with sarcasm but John only smirks and kisses his temple.

“Well, I don’t see anything that’s not to like. Where to now, Professor?”

“The next street to the right, I believe, but that is as far as I was able to narrow it down. The book unfortunately didn’t give me all that much to work with.”

They round the next corner, walking as quickly as Harold’s left leg allows and despite his good humour just moments ago, he can feel the tension running through John. Despite not remembering having been in this precise location before, the sense of familiarity grows with every step. His memories feel closer to the surface than ever before, as though he could graze them with his metaphorical fingertips but he knows better than to try, knows they will slip back into obscurity if he were to do so. Next to him, the smirk has vanished from John’s expression, replaced by a small, concentrated frown, his eyes subtly scanning their surroundings and Harold just _knows_ he is looking for possible threats.

There are few surveillance cameras in this area, though the reassurance this offers is marginal at best. Their walk slows until they come to a halt somewhere in the middle of the street, taking in their surroundings, hoping for a clue.

“You recognise anything?”

“Nothing in particular, I’m afraid. Though we should be somewhere above the station right now.” He lets his gaze run over the shops, mainly other kiosks, restaurants and souvenir stores, across the street itself and the storm drains in it, hoping that this day will not end with him having to see the inside of one, until John draws his attention with a gentle nudge.

“Over there.”

He follows John’s gaze, frowning. “A barber shop? I hope you aren’t planning on a new haircut, I have to admit I quite like yours.”

John flashes him a quick grin and nods towards the entrance next to it where stairs lead underneath the building. “Thanks. But I figured if we’re looking for your secret underground lair, we should start with the one entrance looking like it leads down.”

“Yes, a sound logic. Though I would appreciate it if you could stop referring to it as a lair, I don’t think I’m the type for comic-book-style super-villainy.”

“What should I call it then? Your hideout? Batcave?”

Harold side-eyes him, though he knows the quirk of his own lips he can’t suppress gives his amusement away. “I do hope we’ll encounter neither bats nor ridiculous costumes.”

Crossing the street and stepping onto the opposite sidewalk, John halts him with a gentle touch just before he can take more than the first few steps down the staircase, and pulls his service weapon from his holster. Harold eyes it sceptically.

“I don’t like firearms very much.” A token protest, of course. He silently agrees that this is probably a prudent course of action.

John’s smile is warm but pained and fleeting. “Harold, some unknown organisation gave us amnesia and a serious case of paranoia and something tells me if they stumble across us or we across them, well, I don’t think _they_ like _us_ very much. We discovered clues leading us halfway across town to some abandoned subway station. We don’t know what to expect, and if someone has to have a gun, I’d rather it wasn’t just them. And if something were to happen to you...”

Taking in the pain in John’s eyes, the fierce need to protect and ensure the other’s safety in any way necessary that reflects his own. The trust, unshakeable even though he doesn’t know how that trust was built… Harold swallows thickly and nods, giving in to the impulse to pull John close and kiss him, deep and lingering, glad that the entrance hides them from passersby. “Just… Be careful.” he murmurs when John leans their foreheads together for a moment.

He misses the contact instantly when they pull away, when John grips his gun tighter and steps in front of him, walking down a few stairs ahead of him. The cold metal of the handrail feels familiar in Harold’s palm and this time it doesn’t just fail to surprise him after the fact, he anticipates every imperfection, every scratch and dent in the metal, every chip in the tiles lining the walls. They are undoubtedly in the right place.

The door at the end is unlocked and reveals another staircase when John opens it. It falls shut after Harold steps through and momentarily, darkness swallows them and he doesn’t need to see him to know that John’s every muscle is coiled, prepared to spring into action at any given moment. The neon lights then give a soft ting as they flicker on, flooding the area with their cold light. A metal staircase this time, yellow paint marking the edges, outdated, Chinese advertising on the wall of the first landing.

The air gets colder as they make their way down, smelling slightly dusty and stale and the only sounds are those of their own footsteps and breathing, with the rush of traffic overhead growing fainter by the second. Three flights down, it ends in a narrow corridor, with a single door marked ‘Storage’.

John turns to him, throwing him a questioning look and Harold returns it with a nod, hoping to keep his own nervousness hidden. The ‘Storage’ door turns out to be unlocked as well. Another moment’s darkness, then more neon lights, more interspersed and dimmer, revealing another short flight of stairs and unplastered walls, reflecting off the red piping to the right of the corridor.

John’s footsteps are nearly inaudible as he walks ahead to the end of the corridor, a picture of elegance, focus and controlled strength and Harold feels downright clumsy following him. It occurs to him that this – unknown, potential danger waiting around every corner, requiring a calm without relaxing, with someone behind him to protect – is the type of situation John belongs into, as much as the thought, the awareness of the risks such circumstances bring pains him.

Then he sees the line of John’s shoulders relax slightly and allows himself to release a breath of relief, stepping up to his side, to where the wall of the corridor gives way to a larger area.

“That’s kinda disappointing.”

And indeed, it turns out to be nothing but a storage area, containing nothing but a few shovels and forgotten articles of clothing, some other tools and a few bags of cement next to a half-stocked vending machine.

Harold frowns. “This does seem somewhat anti-climactic.” he admits even as the sense of familiarity lingers, and he shakes his head. “I have never put much stock in gut feelings, but we are in the right place. We have to be.”

With a nod of acknowledgement, John sweeps his gaze across the room before tucking his gun back into his holster and Harold steps out into the room, taking in the blank walls, the dust, the traces of dry cement, old footprints of different sizes all over the floor, the most of which lead to either the corridor or the vending machine.

It’s not quite a memory that surfaces, more just a hint of one, just the briefest shadow of an image, but it’s enough to make him step towards it, pulling his wallet from his back pocket for some change.

“Hungry already?” John teases from behind him, his too familiar footsteps nearing and Harold shakes his head.

“Merely a hunch.” he tells him distractedly as he eyes the contents of the vending machine, the edges of the glass cover. It’s muscle memory to slip the coins in the slot and raise his hand to the keypad, hesitating for a second before typing in 3141 - he wouldn’t admit it out loud, but he thinks that if this is something he himself set up, he would get quite a bit of amusement out of setting pi as the entrance code - and steps back just before there is the click of the glass cover opening.

John grins at him with a mixture of astonishment and pride, and a profound sense of relief, of safety rushes through him the moment he hears the mechanical hiss of the glass cover and then the rack beneath it swinging open.

“If you have any intention of saying something regarding _purely hypothetical_ similarities to comic-book-style super-villainy, please refrain from doing so.” he tells him the moment John’s grin turns too amused, but there is no sounding stern when he knows there is a triumphant smile on his own face, so all it earns it is a laugh and a “Well...” before he decided to interrupt the impending comment with a kiss instead. This strategy is considerably more effective.

“Fine.” John concedes and takes his hand as they step through he opening behind the vending machine.

Blindly, Harold’s fingers find the light switch on the wall and a moment later, warm light floods the cavernous subway station. His blood is rushing in his ears, heart pounding, when they make their way down the last, short flight of stairs into what truly cannot be described as anything other than a secret lair, every single one of his senses assaulted with familiarity as he takes in the sight of the subway car, the bench, the glass board, the workstation and the computer at it, feeling its almost magnetic pull.

John’s hand slips from his as he steps away to take a look of his own and that is the moment when the opaque glass barrier between himself and his memories shatters. Images flood back in, fragmented and disorganised and incomplete but enough to make sense of and he gasps, trying to suppress the sudden rush of dizziness and nausea, joy and fear and pain and loss attached to the memories blurring together.

Unthinkingly, he rushes towards his workstation on instinct. This is his area of expertise – _not_ the ethics of high-frequency decision making – his lifeline, his anchor. His fingers press the power button through muscle memory as he sits and remembers. Remembers his Machine, and Nathan and Arthur and Samaritan. Remembers Martine holding a gun in each hand, one to his head and one to Root’s, and Lambert one to John’s. Remembers the sting of a needle and waking up in his apartment with a pounding headache and the sense of something missing.

Bear and Alicia Corwin. Control and Greer and the bench underneath the Queensboro bridge. Sameen, falling in the hallway of the stock exchange. And John, John _Reese_ , not Detective Riley. _Our covers must come first_. How could he have forgotten?

A hand settles on his shoulder, warm and reassuring. “Harold, what’s wrong? You okay?”

Slowly, he turns in his chair to look at him the way he knows he has done countless times before. Wants to tell him that he remembers, but there is a lump in his throat and a hundred questions, a thousand words stuck behind it, his heart aching with years of well-earned trust, fond memories and well-hidden love he kept there like a secret treasure for so long.

John’s eyes are full of open concern, but then they flicker to the desk, back to Harold briefly before returning to the desk again, to the picture lying there and the other seems to be in the same kind of trance that had Harold rushing over to his workstation, reaching out to pick it up, staring at it. It shakes with the slightest tremor in his grip.

“Shaw.” John whispers and Harold can see the moment he too begins to remember, can watch the darkness settle over his soul that Harold had barely been aware had been missing, can watch the weight of the world come to rest on his shoulders once again. His grey-blue are full of pain when they find Harold’s.

“What happened to us, Finch?”

And oh, he cannot begin to describe the relief of hearing that name, _his_ name again. “I’m sorry, I’m not quite sure either, I...” He turns back to the monitors the moment they flicker to life, displaying an unfamiliar piece of code. It isn’t his work, but it’s similar enough in places, yet simpler, smarter, more elegant that he could ever write. Than any human could. He scans through the lines as fast as he can, trying to decipher the purpose of the program, until he realises that it isn’t a program at all.

“Harold? Talk to me.”

“This is… a record of sorts. Similar to the record of emails or text messages being sent, but infinitely more complex. As far as I can gain, the first part of this is a negotiation.” he swallows. “Samaritan’s operatives captured us and Samaritan itself concluded that we would be unlikely to be successfully turned into assets, so it decided to have us terminated. The Machine proposed to spare our lives and merely alter our memories, effectively neutralising us at threats to Samaritan without killing us, in exchange...” Interpreting the next part, he has to close his eyes briefly. “In exchange for its cooperation.”

“So the Machine’s gone dark side?”

“No, but it’s also no longer capable of communicating with us or protecting us. Our covers are effectively compromised, or at least they will be the moment Samaritan notices that we’ve started to remember who we are.” Scrolling further down, he points the next section out to John. “This part… The Machine gained access to the process of overwriting our memories and added sections to compel us to avoid anything Samaritan could use to surveil us, as well as to seek out familiar places and attempt to actively regain our memories, but it had to remain undetected. I suppose the Machine’s interference was more effective on me than on you because I have more memories that needed to be overwritten, which destabilises the artificial ones. Over time, we should regain most of or with some luck even all our memories.”

“What happened to the others?”

“Miss Shaw is alive and as far as the Machine could determine, Samaritan is attempting to turn her into its asset. Root… there was an entirely new identity assigned to her since she lacked a permanent cover. Detective Fusco was transferred out of the state by the Machine, and apparently it sent him a text on your behalf, asking him to take care of Bear for the time being.”

John nods gravely and even though he turns away, Harold catches a glimpse of the wet shine in his anguished eyes and before he thinks, he covers John’s hand – the one still on his shoulder – with his own.

“We will get them back, John. This is not the end. Even if the Machine cannot help us for now, we will get them back. I can hack into the commissioner’s office, transfer Detective Fusco back to New York and knowing her, it probably won’t be too long until we’ll find Root once we’re actively looking for her. She is a very resourceful woman after all, and we do know her style.”

“And for now, business as usual?”

“As far as our covers are concerned, yes. Though we will have to be much more careful from now on, just as before, one single slip could give us away, but now Samaritan is actively looking. But as long as the Machine has to maintain the pretence of cooperating with it, we won’t receive any Numbers.”

He hates the renewed pain this puts into John’s eyes, but there also is understanding. Understanding that this will at least heighten their own odds of survival. Still, he wishes he could comfort him beyond presenting an air of confidence and optimism he doesn’t quite feel. Their situation has taken a turn for the worst, even in the case their covers aren’t compromised just yet. _Sooner or later both of us will probably wind up dead_ , he has known it for a long time but each time he is faced with the reality of those words it seems harder than the last. It has him longing to reach out, make sure they’re both alive in this moment, to bury his hands in John’s hair and kiss him, like he has wanted countess times in the past, an urge he has done his utmost to hide.

John leans forward to place the picture of Sameen back onto the desk and the angle lets Harold catch sight of the lovebites just barely hidden by the collar of his shirt, and his mind struggles to align the reality of the past eighteen hours with the years preceding them, convinced the other wouldn’t return his interest, then being all too acutely aware that pursuing a physical relationship would be inappropriate, and for the longest time too afraid to damage a friendship that has become so essential for him. And it’s that fear that makes him speak, mouth dry and heart beating rapidly.

“Mr Reese? Regarding what happened between us last night...”

“Don’t.” John interrupts him, urgently, some unidentifiable emotion in his voice and his hand twitches briefly, leaving Harold almost pathetically grateful when he doesn’t remove it from underneath Harold’s after all. “Please, Harold, just don’t. I know you didn’t… I won’t let it affect our friendship and I promise I’ll never bring it up, you can forget it ever happened. Just… please don’t say it.”

By all means, he should simply let the matter lie, trust John’s assurance that nothing will change, but John refuses to look at him and seems possibly more dejected than before and the sight makes Harold’s heart break. “I’m afraid I don’t quite understand. Don’t say what? I only meant to express...”

Roughly running his free hand over his face, John lets out a noise somewhere between a laugh and a sob. “Dammit Harold, do you need to make _me_ say it?”

“I...”

“Don’t tell me that you regret it. I know you do, I know yesterday we were practically strangers and that made it _simple_ and now… I get it, I just. Please, I just don’t want to have to hear you say it. Can you give me that? Can you just… let me have last night?”

“Oh.” He struggles to catch on to yet another shift in his reality and by the time he has processed the thought, John has withdrawn his hand, has thrown him a wry, sad little smile and turned away. “John, wait, I...”

Recapturing his hand, Harold waits until he turns back to face him, lets him see the too wet glint in those grey-blue eyes. “Oh John.” he sighs and there is nothing that could stop him from kissing him in this moment, smiling into the contact at the surprised noise the other makes, at the way his arms wrap hesitatingly around his waist.

“Once we’ve gotten our friends back home safe, I do believe you still owe me a proper date. Unless you’ve changed your mind, though I think that would be quite the shame. I think I’d rather enjoy going out with you.”

“Of course, if you want.” Finally, a hint of a genuine smile tugs at John’s lips and more importantly yet, there is a glimmer of what might be hope in his eyes. Harold holds onto his hand as he returns to his workstation to start arranging Detective Fusco’s re-transfer and thinks that hope might just be enough for now.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much for reading! I hope you liked it? If so, I hope you might leave me a comment, comments are the air my muse breathes :D


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